


Weird dreams I have told from the perspective of IT characters

by Foxy_Hamada



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Dreams, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 04:17:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13310247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxy_Hamada/pseuds/Foxy_Hamada
Summary: Stanley and a strange man find themselves in a bar.





	1. Fire and Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this stuff isn't all too weird haha. Sometimes when I have dreams they're really weird, and I thought it would be fun to write them out. ((I don't like writing from my perspective, and I'm obsessed with IT so)) I don't think any of them are going to be related to each other so

Stanley looked awkwardly at his options as he stood next to the vaguely familiar figure. He was confused as to why he was there with this man, which he dubbed Mystery Man respectively, as Stanley didn’t have any clear memory of him. He blinked slowly at the wide array of candy sprawled out in front of him- For a gas station bar, it was a large building. Though he’d never been in one before, the thought that they weren’t usually this big had struck him as accurate. Stanley reached down and dug his hands into his pockets, only to find no money. Mystery Man was standing over a set of electronic cigarettes labeled as “vapes”.  _ That’s a fucking lie.  _ Stanley thought absently and he walked over to look at them. Although he didn’t favour the idea of smoking in any form, he had to admit that the strong metallic colours were certainly attractive. He wouldn’t mind having one just to look at. This particular set was full of mostly vibrant blues and purples, a few reds scattered around randomly. “You want one?” Mystery Man proposed. Stanley shook his head and went back over to the large rack of candy. Mystery Man walked over with an electric purple “vape” woven gently between his fingers. “I can buy you something from here, if that’s what you want.” Stanley scrunched up his nose, then shook his head once again. He felt uncomfortable being here with this stranger, and accepting money from him felt like it would have major backlash in the future. Suddenly a thought sprung forward into Stanley’s mind, or, maybe it had been a reminder- He remembered that he’d come here for an alcohol that allowed people to breathe fire. Or, well, it allowed  _ him  _ to breathe fire in the very least. He couldn’t remember the name of the liquor, instead he only remembered it being clear and the name was very Irish sounding. He confusedly stumbled up to the counter where the main bar was, looking at the options. A brief conversation was shared, then absolute chaos. Something burned inside of Stanley’s chest, some sort of rage induced heartache as he described it, all over not knowing the name of and alcohol that made him spit fire. He slammed his hands down on the bar, making a loud  _ thud  _ which echoed throughout the whole place, regardless of the building in fact, not being built to echo things the way it had. It sounded more like a gym locker room than a gas station bar. Stanley grabbed the bartender’s collar and brought him so close to his face he was almost certain the poor boy could smell the spice in his breath, which had apparently come from consuming an alcohol similar to the one that helped him become a fire breathing dragon; Which he had no memory of consuming until that very moment. “Listen,” He hissed, his voice reaching a vocal range that was beyond abnormal. He paused, currently aware that he didn’t even know what point he was trying to get across. He became more angry, then dropped the bartender. Beside him was Richie, and he had seemed to take the place of Mystery Man. Richie was also angered, most likely because Stanley had gotten pissed off over spilt milk; Richie had settled on the thought that he was going to raise utter hell and drive every last one of the patrons out of the bar, and he did just that. It had slipped Stanley’s mind completely as to what Richie did exactly, as when he tried to recall it later he simply couldn’t remember. The only thing that had consistently entered the bar at that point was the dim sunlight that filtered through the now obviously large windows. He thought about Mystery Man and how he vanished, although he most likely left in a group of people undetected. The first words to come out of Stanley’s mouth shocked Richie and himself, as he didn’t really know where they’d come from, or where he got such a ridiculous idea: “We’ve gotta tidy up before people come back.” Richie slightly furrowed his brow but nodded, pushing his coke bottle lenses back up on his face. At the time this seemed like a perfectly acceptable thing to do, and absolutely no one made a fuss about it as they’d find out later. There was a door that led up to a series of bedrooms, all filled with things that bars needed: Glasses, mixers, and of course, copious amounts of all the alcohol one could ever dream of. These rooms looked like the dream townhouse of a chronic alcoholic. The only room Stanley entered was a room with many tall glasses stacked neatly on a bed, and a few on the floor. Richie had thrown one onto the ground for seemingly no reason at some point, and they ignored it for so long it simply disappeared. Stanley found the alcohol that he could breathe fire with, much to his delight. However there wasn’t a name on the barrels it was in, and how he knew this one was the right one was more of a gut feeling. He supposed they didn’t sell it. He and Richie ran the bar for what seemed like months. They didn’t have a concept of time, so for all he knew it could have only been five minutes. They met a man who called himself Markiplier, and had also claimed to be a famous Youtuber. Both Stanley and Richie didn’t exactly recognize him, so they just took his word for it. He was friendly, and they easily became friends. 

 

“Look.” Stanley said, taking a drink of a clear, vodka-esk liquid in a golden solo cup. He swallowed hard, then blew out a large bout of fire; Which had caught Markiplier on fire. He didn’t seem to care, in fact he didn’t even seem to notice he was on fire. Instead he clapped enthusiastically. “You know what?” Stanley began as he walked his new friend back to the bar. “You’ve been good to us for a while now. You’re out most regular customer.” Markiplier looked proud for some reason. “So, we’ve decided to give you this bar.” Suddenly Markiplier's eyes lit up and he clasped his hands together, looking as if he just received some sort of grand reward. 

I’m not exactly sure if anything happened after that, but that’s basically the entire dream from a third person narrative. 


	2. Birthday Shoot Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday party turns out to be a bit more extreme than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A description of the house:
> 
> The upstairs consists of two rooms: One on the left and one on the right. The one on the right is a bedroom, the one on the left is unused and always closed. Right next to the left room is the stair case. Against the wall is a couch, and a bit behind the couch is a bed, which is also against a wall. ((Behind the couch is a door, which leads to a closet. No one can get to the closet because of the couch. There isn't anything interesting in there anyway.)) Right as you get down the stairs, if you turn left you'll see another staircase leading down to another section of the house. We don't talk about that section of the house. Straight ahead is a longish hallway, and to the right just before you come out of the hall is the bathroom. After you come out of the hall, you come to the dining room table. At the very front of the room is a TV and a rocking chair. To the left of that is a small, doorless pantry. To the right of the chair is the actual kitchen. The living room is also to the left of the rocking chair, past the pantry. No, the pantry and living room are not connected. There is a lazy boy chair in the living room, and there is a couch against the back part of the room. Directly left of the couch is another door, which is always closed. The kids have started a rumor that there is a dead body in there.

Bill woke up excited. It was his birthday! Or, well, it wasn’t his  _ real  _ birthday, but for some reason his brain and his family thought it was. It’s not like he really even cared, he liked birthday parties. He got out of his bed and went to go down the steps, when suddenly he saw someone. A boy he’d never seen before.  _ Who’s this? Why is he here?  _ The boy was on the thicker side and sort of tall. He had ginger hair and freckles, and he was painfully pale. He noticed Bill, and then started being terribly rude. He was spitting out all kinds of insults, and Bill felt a horrible childish anger well up inside of him, the kind you get when a kid pushes you, or when a kid makes a joke about you or your mom. You know, the kind of childish anger where you say in your head,  _ I’m gonna kill you.  _ And you feel dead serious about it. Yes, Bill had suddenly convinced himself he was going to kill this boy. It wasn’t a foreign concept to him. No, not in the slightest. Bill took out a piece of straw he had in his pocket for reasons beyond him, and poked the boy in the eye with it. The boy had closed his eye just in time, and the now very brittle straw broke against the boy’s eyelid. Bill said nothing more and crushed the remaining straw to dust and let it sift through his hand. He walked on downstairs, and went into the living room. He sat and talked with some of his cousins, mostly about stupid things they thought no one else would ever think to speak of. He went to go to the kitchen to see how the food was coming along, and he saw the boy. He was sitting in the rocking chair, staring intently at the TV. He was looking all high and mighty too, and that sent Bill over the edge. Bill stomped into the actual kitchen and grabbed a small, two bladed knife and walked back quietly to the boy, but had been noticed. His family began to shift into the living room so everyone could open presents. The boy stumbled from his seat and made for the door, but before he could leave he produced a pistol from his pocket in a worried fashion. He pointed it shakily at Bill, though it was obvious he was over exaggerating to make him seem more vulnerable.  _ Oh, he’s truh-trying to make it seem like he’s a-afraid.  _ Bill walked on still with the knife; His family cheered  _ Happy Birthday _ , and it became almost deafening. The boy moved his finger to the trigger, now more afraid, now struck with actual fear and concern. Bill on the other hand, was less than afraid. No, he did not fear for his life then, he feared the pain that would strike him. It was like waiting for a shot; The waiting hurt the most. He knew it was coming, oh yes, he knew. Bill drew nearer, and the boy shot him. He shot him a bunch of times, as a matter of fact. He shot Bill in the leg, both his arms twice, and in the head. And oh boy did it sting! But it passed by so very quickly. Bill had neat, dark reddish purple holes in his body. He continued on, completely unaffected. The reddish purple blood spilled all over the beautiful green carpet. The boy ran out of the door in a panic. Once Bill got outside of the door, he saw the boy on the ground. He must have tripped on the stairs or something. The bullets fell out of Bill’s body, and around the boy. The darkened purple looking blood rose up from the bullets once they hit the ground. His family was still yelling and cheering, and it was still so very audible. Bill walked down over to him and eyed him up and down. The boy was fearing for his life. Bill squinted his eyes, and without warning stabbed the boy. He stabbed him over and over, again and again. He was absolutely merciless. The air around him got hot and humid, the trees a black outline against a dark blue sky. The air smelled...hot. Hot, yet fresh and nice. It smelled of summer. It smelled of good times and good things. It drowned out the metallic scent of blood. It washed away the blood on Bills hands and his body, it mended his bullet wounds. The wounds he bared were merely scars, little puncture wound looking holes. Healed holes. He kicked the knife under the fridge and went to go back inside, but before he did he stole one last look at the boy. His body was already decaying, and the cats were sniffing at him curiously.  _ They’re gonna ea-eat him.  _ He went into the house, which was much cooler than the outside. The birthdays were over, and everyone was fanned out amongst the house again. He felt...tired. He found himself looking down at the carpet. No more blood stains. He let his eyes wander up to the ceiling. There were splotches of blood on the ceiling.  _ Will anyone notice…? _ He went back into the living room and sat down on the floor. “Hey!” One of his cousins called. “Where were you? We skipped over you for birthdays! Actually, what were you even doing?”

“I was

(Killing someone)

outside. I needed some fresh air.” 

His cousin nodded, then said, “Well, here’s your gift!” They handed him a box and wandered off somewhere else in the house. The box was very small, and when he opened it, he found forty dollars.  _ Nice,  _ He thought. Everyone around him was leaving, and then he was left basically all alone. He walked back up to his room and sat on his bed, looking at the box he had been gifted with. 

_ I am alone, yes I am. I’m alone and that’ll never change. I’m leaving tomorrow, I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m alone and I’ll be trapped.  _

“Hey. I didn’t stutter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose Bill to lead this dream purely because of the stuttering.


End file.
